The Dominion Tower doors closed behind them with a sound that felt too final.
Not a simple thud.
A seal.
A verdict.
Lira flinched at the echo.
The air outside was colder than when they'd entered, and the sky over Ashthorne still flickered—thin veins of sickly light crawling through the clouds like something trapped beneath them was trying to bleed through.
Students stared.
They froze mid-conversation, hands wrapped around books, practice weapons, sigil-scribed scrolls. The moment they saw Caelum step out of the tower with Lira beside him, the noise of the courtyard twisted.
It didn't stop.
It just… broke.
Whispers fractured, then recombined into a different shape.
"That's them—"
"The Threadbearer—"
"Look at the girl—gods, she's pale—"
"Is that the anchor?"
"I heard she's bound to the anomaly itself—"
"They let them walk out? Just like that?"
Lira felt every stare like a needle.
Her heart beat in her throat. Her legs still felt like they were borrowing strength from someone else. Every breath she dragged in tasted like iron and cold stone.
Caelum didn't slow.
He walked forward with the same measured pace as always, hands relaxed at his sides, expression calm—too calm for someone who had just been labeled a Category Red Contained Anomaly.
She had heard the words.
She didn't know how to forget them.
Category Red.
Contained Anomaly.
Stability-anchor.
Her.
A living condition clause.
"As long as Caelum remains stable, you will be allowed to live…"
Her stomach twisted. Her fingers trembled. Her field of vision briefly narrowed, dark shadows creeping in at the edges.
She must have stumbled, because suddenly his hand was at her lower back—light, steady pressure.
"Breathe," he said quietly.
It wasn't gentle.
It was… precise.
Still, her lungs obeyed.
She inhaled once. Twice. The bond between them throbbed like a warm line, the frantic chaos inside her chest drawn into a narrower, more contained shape.
She hated that he could do that.
She hated that she needed him to.
And worst of all—
Some traitorous part of her took comfort in it.
Back to the Useless Dorm
Dorm Nine had never been quiet.
Too many rejects crammed together. Too many nerves. Too many shouting matches, complaints, jokes to cover fear.
When the door opened and they stepped inside, silence slammed into the room like a physical blow.
Conversations cut mid-sentence.
A deck of cards stopped mid-air as a boy fumbled them.
Someone choked on their tea.
Dozens of eyes landed on them.
On her.
On the invisible thread humming between them.
Lira suddenly wished she could turn invisible, or evaporate, or sink into the floor.
Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, because Caelum didn't stop moving and her feet obeyed his pace like she was tied to him (because she was).
"Move," Marenne snapped from behind them, voice sharp with fear poorly disguised as irritation. "You can gossip after they sit down."
The students shuffled aside.
No one dared speak.
No one dared get close.
Caelum led Lira down the hall toward her room, his presence parting the crowd more effectively than any shouted order. Jalen stumbled in behind them, muttering prayers to every god, sigil, and half-forgotten household spirit he knew.
"Red, it was red, the bells don't ring for anyone below Myth-tier, we're all going to die in our sleep—"
Marenne elbowed him. "You're not helping."
Lira felt the weight of the dorm's gaze on her back all the way to her door.
Monster's anchor.
Anomaly girl.
The one the Dominion flagged.
She tried not to imagine what they'd say once the door closed.
Caelum opened it and stepped inside first, as if it were his room and not hers. Lira followed, legs shaking, and collapsed more than sat on the edge of her bed.
Marenne slipped in last, shut the door, and locked it with a sharp click.
The sound made Lira jump.
Silence.
Not the heavy, controlled silence of the Council chamber.
A fragile one.
It felt like the pause before glass shattered.
Jalen hovered by the window, peeking between the curtains like he expected Dominion agents to rappel down the walls and break in through the glass.
"They marked you," he finally whispered. "They officially, formally, magically marked you. Do you understand how bad that is?"
"Jalen," Marenne warned.
"What? I'm supposed to pretend this is fine? The bells went red." He gestured wildly. "Red! That's not just bad, that's ancient-war-bad! That's— burn-three-villages-and-pray-to-the-Silent-Ones bad."
Lira pressed her hands to her face and exhaled.
Her thoughts wouldn't line up.
Council eyes.
Chain-clinking wings.
Voss calling her "the bonded one."
The words allowed to live echoing inside her chest.
A flicker of threads around Caelum's fingers.
That strange, unreal light.
And his voice.
"If you are going to break this world, at least make it worth the collapse."
"I don't break things. I unravel them."
She shivered.
Caelum stood near the wall, leaning against it lightly as if they weren't all dangling above a void.
His eyes were half-lidded, but Lira knew he wasn't relaxed. The bond vibrated faintly with the controlled edge of his focus. His Thread-Sense was probably stretched throughout half the academy by now.
He always looked more detached when he was paying the most attention.
Marenne pushed her glasses up and drew in a steadying breath.
"Okay," she said. "We need clarity. We need to know who's insane, who's doomed, and who's still salvageable. So—start with the important part."
Her eyes landed on Caelum.
"What did they say in there that you're not telling us?"
Lira's fingers tightened on the bedspread.
She looked up at him too.
He met their gazes one by one, then glanced briefly at Jalen, who had gone very still.
"We already covered the essentials," he said. "They can't break the bond. They can't classify my Sigil. They're afraid of waking the entity. They decided it's safer to contain me than to provoke me."
Jalen made a high, strangled sound.
"But there's more," Marenne said. "I saw Voss's face when she dismissed the others. That wasn't just fear. That was… calculation."
Lira swallowed.
"Did she… threaten you?"
"No," Caelum said.
She sagged in relief—
"Not directly," he added.
Marenne sighed. "Of course not."
Lira bit her lip.
"What did she say?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her.
It wasn't cruel, but being on the receiving end of his full attention always felt like standing under a blade that hadn't decided whether it wanted to fall.
"She confirmed what we already assumed," Caelum said. "The entity is more awake than they would like, the seals are straining, and my existence accelerates both conditions."
"So we are doomed," Jalen said faintly.
"Statistically, you were unlikely to survive the academy regardless," Caelum replied, almost absently.
Jalen stared.
"Can you maybe not say things like that out loud?"
"I find it unnecessary to lie to my allies," Caelum said.
Lira's heart skipped.
"Al… allies?" she repeated.
The word tasted strange in the air.
He looked at her again.
"Yes."
Something inside her loosened and tightened at the same time.
Not pawn. Not tool. Ally.
That shouldn't matter. It shouldn't. It was reckless to let it matter.
And yet the bond pulsed—warmer, brighter—like her soul had been waiting for him to say it.
He felt it.
Of course he did.
His eyes flickered with the faintest hint of… something.
Interest, maybe.
Like watching a new thread pattern emerge.
"Regardless," he continued, pushing away from the wall, "the Dominion believes they can manage this as long as I remain… cooperative."
Marenne snorted.
"Yes, clearly the most stable factor in this equation is the boy who threatens to drop half the seals under the academy if they annoy him."
"I don't threaten," Caelum said mildly. "I describe outcomes."
"That's worse," Jalen whispered.
The Bond Pulls Tight
Lira hadn't realized how much her body had been holding itself rigid until Caelum crossed the room and stopped in front of her.
He didn't sit.
He just stood there, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to look at him.
The bond responded first—threads tightening, warmth rushing up her spine, like her soul had already decided his presence equaled stability before her mind could object.
"We need to test something," he said.
That… was not what she expected him to say.
"What?"
He extended his hand.
Not in a dramatic, ceremonial way. Just… offering it. Palm up. Fingers relaxed.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Marenne's quill paused mid-scratch.
Jalen made a confused squeak.
"Wh—what kind of 'test'?" Lira asked, voice breaking on the last word.
"The bond's response to distance, pressure, and external influence," Caelum said. "The Council's assessment suggested you're functioning as a stabilizer. I need to know how much that's affecting you."
She stared at his hand like it might bite her.
"You want to… experiment? Now?"
"Yes."
"That doesn't sound safe," Jalen said immediately.
"It probably won't kill her," Marenne mused. "Probably."
"Not helping," Lira whispered.
Caelum waited.
He didn't push.
He just… existed. Calm, steady, inevitable. A gravitational pull wrapped in human skin.
"If you prefer," he said quietly, "we can leave the results to chance. To the next time the entity decides it wants a closer look."
Her blood went cold.
Images flashed through her mind—
white void, shattering pressure, whispers scraping her bones, the feeling of something huge leaning in.
She swallowed.
"Fine," she whispered.
Her hand shook as she reached out.
The moment her fingers touched his—
Everything sharpened.
The room.
Her heartbeat.
The flickering sky outside.
She felt him.
Not his thoughts, not clearly—but the shape of him. His calm. His calculations. The way he never stopped watching every angle, every threat, every possible outcome.
It should have made her feel small.
Instead, it made her feel… less alone.
The bond surged.
Warmth flooded her chest, then spread outward like molten light. Her breath hitched as a strange equilibrium snapped into place.
She hadn't realized how unbalanced she'd been until that exact second.
"Interesting," Caelum murmured.
"Is that a good 'interesting' or a bad 'interesting'?" Jalen asked.
Caelum's gaze turned distant for a moment.
"The bond density increases significantly with direct contact," he said. "But the real change is not in her. It's in the way the threads respond to ambient pressure."
Marenne's eyes gleamed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the entity has a harder time reaching her like this," he said. "And a harder time reaching me without going through her first."
Lira's heart stuttered.
"That sounds bad."
"It means you function as a buffer," he said.
"That sounds worse."
He considered her for a moment.
"It means," he corrected, "that with you close, I can act more aggressively without destabilizing as quickly."
"…Oh."
There it was again.
That uncomfortable mix of dread and pride.
It was a terrible thing to feel proud of.
To be useful to something like him.
She swallowed.
"How bad is it when I'm… not close?"
He watched her with that unblinking, dissecting gaze.
"Bad for them," he said.
Her breath caught.
"Caelum—"
He let go of her hand.
The warmth dimmed, but didn't vanish.
The bond thrummed, adjusting to the sudden change, threads stretching, then settling into a new pattern.
As if the contact had carved something permanent.
"Enough for now," he said. "We'll test further when you've rested."
"I don't feel rested now," she muttered.
"You're more stable now than you were ten minutes ago," he said.
"…How can you tell?"
"Because I'm not considering tearing down three containment sigils to get you out of this dorm."
She stared.
"That… was an option?"
"Yes," he said.
"Caelum," Marenne said faintly, "for the sake of my remaining sanity, maybe don't share all your options."
"Then don't ask," he replied.
The Academy Reacts
While Dorm Nine trembled behind its doors, the rest of Ashthorne roiled.
Noble heirs gathered in private lounges, their voices sharp with anger and fear.
"This is unacceptable."
"They classified a student as a Red Anomaly and are still keeping him enrolled?"
"If that thing snaps, he takes half the academy with him—"
"My house didn't send me here to die in some experiment."
Rumors of Caelum's new status spread faster than official notices.
Some whispered of assassination attempts.
Others of recruitment offers.
A few simply stared at the flickering sky and quietly planned how to survive the next month.
Instructors met in closed chambers.
Kael Dravos paced like a caged beast, fist clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his weapon.
"He's dangerous," Kael snarled. "I don't care what Maelivara thinks she can contain. You saw him in the arena. You saw him in the East Wing."
Mistress Lysandra's gaze was cool, thoughtful, fingers tapping against a crystal tablet filled with notes.
"I saw a student who stepped into a collapsing anomaly and came back more stable than when he entered," she said. "That is not danger. That is opportunity."
"You call that thing a student?"
"I call it leverage," she said.
Artheon the Bound laughed, chains rattling around his arms and chest.
"Oh, how precious," he crooned. "You're both wrong. He's not danger. He's not opportunity. He's a preview."
"Of what?" Halven demanded.
Artheon's grin showed too many teeth.
"Of what happens when the Stitching finally starts to fail properly," he said. "We should be grateful. We're getting a test run."
"You're insane," Kael muttered.
"Yes," Artheon said cheerfully. "And yet I'm still the one they keep chained up and asking for advice. Interesting implication, no?"
He tugged lightly at his bindings.
"They won't kill him," he said. "They can't. They need him."
"Why?" Halven snapped.
Artheon's smile thinned.
"Because he's already talking to the things we only listen to in nightmares."
Silence settled over the room.
No one argued.
In the Dominion Tower
Voss remained alone in the council chamber long after the others left.
The sigils along the walls had dimmed. The chains around her wings felt heavier than usual.
She stared at the spot where Caelum had stood.
At the faint memory of white threads curling in the air.
At the echo of his words.
"You want control. But you don't have it."
She closed her eyes.
She had seen many horrors in her time.
Corrupted sigils ripping their owners apart from the inside.
Ancient seals fracturing and releasing things that had no language.
Noble heirs consumed by power they were never meant to wield.
But she had never seen anything quite like Caelum Veylor.
He wasn't just an anomaly.
He was an answer to a question the world hadn't meant to ask.
"A Threadbearer…" she murmured.
Far below the tower, something shifted.
Voss's eyes snapped open.
The chains along the walls shivered.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—she felt it.
A gaze.
Cold. Curious. Amused.
From beneath the academy.
"…not yet," she whispered to the unseen presence. "You do not get him yet."
The presence withdrew.
The chains went still.
Voss exhaled slowly.
"We are running out of time," she said to the empty room.
No one answered.
Night Comes Too Quickly
The academy tried, as Voss had said, to pretend things were normal.
Classes resumed.
Schedules were enforced.
Bells rang.
Instructors lectured.
Students took notes.
But the sky refused to behave. It continued to flicker at the edges, like a dying lantern trying to decide whether to go out or explode.
By the time night fell, Lira felt like she'd been stretched thin. Every sound made her start. Every flash of sigil-light made her flinch.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, blankets pulled up to her chin, watching the faint patterns of light and shadow move across the stone.
She was tired.
Her body ached.
Her mind wouldn't stop.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the council chamber. Voss's eyes. The entity's words.
"…a girl whose dreams we will be praying never turn red."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Don't think about it," she muttered to herself. "Don't invite it."
The bond warmed faintly.
For a heartbeat, she thought—hoped—Caelum might be awake, might say something through the connection.
But if he was, he didn't answer.
Of course he didn't.
He wasn't the type to whisper reassurances in the dark.
He was the type to tear apart a containment sigil if the dark got too loud.
She huffed out a tiny, broken laugh.
"…terrible person to be tied to," she told the ceiling.
The bond pulsed.
She froze.
"Caelum?" she whispered.
No answer.
But the warmth lingered.
Then—
Something changed.
The air thickened.
The shadows in the room bent in a direction shadows weren't supposed to bend.
Lira's heart lurched.
"No," she whispered. "Not now. Not—"
A sound slid into her ears.
Not quite a voice.
Not quite a thought.
More like a pattern unraveling just wrong enough to hurt.
"…anchor…
…thread-joined…
…echo-heart…"
Her throat closed.
She sat up too fast.
The room stayed the same, but her perception tilted.
She could see threads.
Not like Caelum did—cleanly, precisely—but distorted versions, as if she were underwater looking up at tangled lines on the surface.
They ran through the walls.
Through the bed.
Through her own chest.
One thread burned brighter than all the others.
Caelum's.
It pulled at her.
No—she realized with dawning horror—it wasn't pulling at her.
Something else was pulling at it.
A pressure formed at the edges of her mind, as if something were trying to step through her skull.
Lira's breath turned sharp and shallow.
"N-no," she whispered. "Stop. Stop—"
The entity didn't stop.
It pressed closer, its presence a mix of too many concepts to separate—hunger and curiosity and boredom and recognition and something like… affection twisted beyond comprehension.
"…show…
…see…
…open…"
A thread in her mind snapped.
She saw—
Not the dorm.
Not her room.
Something else.
A vast, white expanse filled with seams and breaks.
Endless threads, some thick as towers, some thin as hair, all stitched into a pattern too vast to understand.
In the center of it—
A shape.
Not a body.
Not truly.
A… knot.
A massive, bleeding knot of threads, pulsing with sickly light and old, ancient pain.
It turned.
Looked at her.
Saw her.
And smiled without a face.
Lira's scream never left her throat.
A different hand slammed into the vision.
White threads cut across her sight—not the entity's.
Sharper. Cleaner.
A pattern she recognized instinctively.
Caelum.
His presence crashed into the bond like a blade slamming into a lock.
The vision tore.
The knot vanished.
The entity recoiled, its attention flaring with something like annoyance.
"…little anchor…" it hissed.
"…shielded…
…by him…"
Reality snapped back into place.
Lira found herself pressed against the wall, fingers dug so hard into the stone her nails had split. Sweat drenched her skin. Her heart thundered.
And Caelum stood in front of her.
He wasn't dressed for sleep.
He hadn't come from his bed.
His eyes glowed faintly, threads swirling around his hands like distorting air.
He must have crossed the dorm and entered her room in seconds.
He had heard.
He had felt.
"How did you—" she gasped.
He didn't answer.
He placed his hand flat against her sternum, over her heart. His palm was hot. Too hot.
The bond surged.
Pain spiked—sharp, bright, almost blinding—
Then it vanished.
The foreign pressure crushed out of existence.
The entity's attention, already retreating, flared once in irritation.
"…greedy little bearer…"
Then it was gone.
Lira slumped forward, only staying upright because Caelum didn't let her fall.
She realized she was shaking again.
Of course she was.
Her voice broke.
"I—I didn't call it. I didn't— I didn't—"
"I know," he said.
His voice was softer than the words deserved.
She laughed a tiny, hysterical sound.
"That's not fair."
"No," he said.
"It isn't."
Her vision blurred.
Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.
"Why is it doing this?" she whispered. "Why can't it just leave me alone?"
"Because you're close to me now," he said.
"That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be," he said mildly.
"Stop saying that," she choked.
He tilted his head.
"It's honest."
"Then lie," she snapped.
Silence.
For a moment, she thought she'd gone too far.
Then—
"I don't lie to you," he said quietly.
The words hit harder than comfort would have.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"…then what am I supposed to do?" she whispered. "Just… wait? Wait for it to poke at my mind again? For my dreams to go red? For the Dominion to decide I'm not worth the risk?"
His hand remained over her heart.
The bond throbbed beneath it.
"You survive," he said.
"Not helpful," she muttered.
"You survive," he repeated, "until you can do more than survive."
She opened her eyes slowly.
He met her gaze.
"You are not just an anchor," he said. "They defined you that way because it's simple. Because it's convenient. Because it makes you sound like an object they can use."
His eyes sharpened.
"But anchors hold more than they're meant to. They endure pressure meant to crush them. And if they learn to use that pressure…"
His fingers curled slightly against her chest.
"…they become weapons."
She stared at him.
"I don't feel like a weapon."
"You don't feel like yourself yet," he said. "You're still reacting. The entity is testing your boundaries. So is the academy. So is your own Sigil."
He let his hand drop.
The air felt colder without it.
"But they're not the only ones allowed to test things," he said.
She blinked away tears.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered.
"I know," he said.
"I don't want it."
"I know."
She looked up at him, desperate.
"Then why does it feel like… like some part of me keeps leaning toward you anyway?"
A small silence fell between them.
He could have told her:
Because the bond needs stability.
Because your soul recognizes a center of gravity.
Because you're still alive due to his interference and some part of you is aligning around that fact.
Because the world outside him is less predictable.
He didn't say any of that.
"Because adaptation is more efficient than resistance," he said instead.
"That's a horrible answer," she whispered.
His mouth twitched.
"Probably," he said. "But it also means one important thing."
"What?"
"You're going to learn," he said.
"How to survive this," he added.
"And how to hurt something that thinks watching you makes it safe."
Her breath caught.
"Survive… and hurt it back?"
"Yes."
She swallowed.
"That… sounds like you."
"It sounds like you too," he said quietly.
She stared.
Then let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"I'm not like you, Caelum."
"No," he agreed.
He looked almost amused.
"If you were, the academy would have fallen already."
He stayed until her shaking stopped.
He didn't sit.
Didn't speak, unless she spiraled too far and needed a verbal tether to return.
He just remained.
A presence.
A steady weight at the edge of her awareness, like a wall built exactly where she was most likely to fall.
At some point, the exhaustion dragged her down.
She slumped back onto the bed, eyes heavy, limbs leaden.
"Will it… come back?" she murmured, voice already half-asleep.
"Yes," he said.
"That was not the right answer," she muttered weakly.
"But," he added, "next time, it won't find you unprepared."
Her lashes fluttered.
"How can you be so sure—"
"Because I'll be there," he said.
The bond pulsed at the certainty in his voice.
Her lips curved, just a little.
"That… is the first helpful thing you've said all day," she whispered.
He watched her as her breathing evened out, as the bond settled into a softer rhythm.
Only when he was certain the entity's attention had fully retreated and her threads weren't fraying did he move.
He placed two fingers lightly against the air over her chest.
Threads appeared to his sight—fine, trembling lines, still too thin, still too fragile.
He brushed them.
Just once.
A minor adjustment. A subtle reinforcement.
Nothing the Dominion would detect.
But enough.
Enough that the next time the entity reached for her, it would find a slightly sharper shape.
He straightened, eyes hooded.
"Adapt, Lira," he said softly, almost too quiet for sound.
"Or they'll write your end in someone else's ledger."
He left the room without noise.
The dorm hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow of sigil-lamps. Most of Dorm Nine was asleep—or pretending to be.
He took three steps toward his own room before he felt movement.
Marenne leaned against the wall in the shadow of a support beam, arms folded, watching him with eyes that were far too clear for someone awake at this hour.
"How much did you hear?" he asked.
"Enough," she said. "To know she's luckier than most anchors."
"Luck has nothing to do with it."
"Doesn't it?" she murmured. "If she'd been standing a few steps further away in the infirmary, would you have reached her in time?"
He didn't answer.
"Thought so," she said.
She pushed off the wall, stepping closer.
"You know they'll come for her, right?" she said. "Not just the entity. The Dominion. The nobles. The ones who think if they can study her, they can control you."
"I know," he said.
"Good."
She patted his arm once, as if he were a particularly dangerous weapon she'd decided she was on the same side as.
"Because if you let them take her," she said lightly,
"I'll help the entity wake up."
He looked at her.
Her gaze didn't waver.
After a moment, he nodded.
"Noted," he said.
She smiled, sharp and tired.
"Good night, Caelum."
"Good night, Marenne."
She went back to her room.
He went to his.
He lay down only because the human body expected it. He didn't sleep, not truly.
He watched the threads.
He watched the sky through the narrow window as it pulsed faintly with colors no one else could see.
He watched the academy's seals strain.
He watched the entity press faintly against its cage, amused and patient.
And somewhere deep beneath his ribs, he felt something else.
Not fear.
Not excitement.
Just a quiet, relentless certainty.
The world was fraying.
And he was the only one inside Ashthorne who understood what that actually meant.
He smiled in the darkness.
"Then unravel faster," he murmured to the silent sky.
"I'll keep pace."
The threads shivered in answer.